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Time seems to slip silently somewhat sneakily between my fingers tips.
Memories pound my particularly perfect skull with partial little dips.
Without words I am but a whimsical washout hopeless mess.
Even when the good days end with a blurry stress.
I wish it wasn’t easy to end up buried deep with disappointment.
Why can I drown so easily in my own tears?
I’ve been choking so long I haven’t been able to glance in a mirror
Now I am on the road again.
Where everything began.
The hope, the fear, the ridicule, and the cruelty of reality.
It’s hard to tell how many more horrid hours are left.
Till death is waiting in a glass bed where fear is kept.
They always give you floundering flowers that now feel drunk with red.
A red that’s the sticky foundation of humans under the surface skin that’s bedded.
Everyone who came is dressed in the color of black of death.
Skin whose story flows down to a place known only as the cold bitterness of death.
I used to think roses were loves way of catching your breath.
With a dead grip one of permanent glue was vivid.
Red roses made her hands look paler made her soul more livid.
I now have a connection to the dark, to the night, to the moon.
Her raspy hair screamed as a child to come out and play.
Her smile as a grin from a malicious monster that mumbled a prayer.
Her eyelids were calm little war zones that could do no more fighting.
Her hands were soft memorials filled to the point of overflowing.
Her wrinkled nose aged with a fear that runs deeper than the ocean.
Her damaged ears would not hear anymore hateful words.
Her head as a broken guitar can only play one cord.
Her lungs have always burned dead with the despair of nations.
Her stomach could not save all the people in the world of contradiction.
Her arms were a message of hope searching for the hopeless and helpless.
Her speedy hands grabbing towns before they fall hard head first.
Her legs were super machines always on the brink of the worst.
Her heart cared for the wrong and the right.
Her feet were planted here in this place we call home.
She was once filled with great hope that did roam.
She now lye still in pages of a textbook never read.
She waits for a future never ahead.
Her name is History.
She wants to make a reappearance.
Before we all cause a disappearance.
We can be saved from the strife in the past.
We just need a little doctors cast.
I can see her because I am alone.
She was my friend in a time when the world couldn’t get darker.
I had no love, no Cupid the archer.
She put me on a path less traveled on.
I will never forget the life she gave me a ton of.
Thank you History.